Blue Eyes
by Elma MacBetsy
Summary: "His eyes...they're blue". "All babies have blue eyes". Blythe House handles the biggest lie she's ever told. Contains references to child abuse.


Holding her child for the first time must be the happiest experience of her life, Blythe decides. All of her worries and concerns about her pregnancy – including the ones a new wife and first-time mother shouldn't have – just melt away with every sound, every movement from the baby – her baby – cradled in her arms. Nothing can take this feeling away from her.

She glances away from her son for the first time to look at her husband, currently perched on the side of her bed. He too is staring intently at their baby. Her heart almost melts. Of course her John would be a devoted father.

"John, can you believe it? He's here, he's healthy…he's _ours_ ". John's eyes rise to meet hers, and she feels her smile start to fade when she doesn't see her own joy reflected in them.

"His eyes…" His attention returns to their son, and her smile immediately returns as she follows suit. She just can't help gushing:

"Oh yes, they're beautiful, aren't they?"

"They're _blue_ ". The words have a far greater impact on her than she cares to admit. She keeps the now half-fake smile firmly attached to her face, even though he isn't even looking.

"All babies have blue eyes." It's the first thing that springs to mind, an old wives' tale she once heard. She has no idea if it's true or not. But for now, it seems to appease him. And for now, that's enough.

* * *

It's his second birthday, and Greg is happily toddling around the living room floor, occasionally pausing to examine one of the small number of gifts he had received.

" _Don't want to spoil the boy, now Blythe_."

Blythe, in fact, does want to spoil the boy. Very much. But on this – on most things, in fact – she let John have the final say. She fell easily into her role as mother, and over the last two years has allowed herself to fall just as easily into their routine as a happy family. The thoughts that plagued her during her pregnancy hardly bother her now, but they are most certainly _not_ gone altogether.

"Look at him, John! I can't believe how big he's getting! He's not our baby anymore," she exclaims. John's gaze is fixed on their son.

"No," he agrees, eyes never leaving Greg.

The scene is all too familiar to Blythe, too similar to this day two years ago; John is sitting the same way, has the same tone in his voice, the same intensity in his expression. She knows what he's going to say before he says it. "But his eyes are still blue."

"Yes," Blythe confirms, trying to keep her voice light. "I suppose they are." She hopes the message gets through to him. _It doesn't matter_.

"Mine aren't. Yours aren't." John supplies unnecessarily. Blythe frowns.

"These things are always skipping across generations." She wracks her brains for something that will, once again, appease him. "What about your aunt? She has blue eyes, doesn't she? I've always thought Greg looked a little bit like her…"

"Hmm," John says, with a note of finality that declares the end of the conversation.

Blythe remembers too late that John's blue-eyed aunt is related only by marriage.

* * *

Unable to sleep, Blythe lies on her side, facing away from her very much asleep husband – you couldn't fake that kind of snoring. She never sleeps on nights like this. How can she, when her little boy, her baby, is sitting on the ground in the yard? She heard on the radio this evening that they're predicting snow tonight. She prays that it doesn't arrive until the morning.

This isn't the life she wanted for any of them, and tonight she really and truly hates it. She hates that Greg wasn't allowed to eat this evening, like far too many others. She hates that he'll spend the night outside, freezing in the snow. She hates that if he was indoors, he'd be freezing in the bathtub instead. She hates how hard John pushes him, when an eight year old boy ought only to be playing. She hates the cuts and bruises she sometimes finds on him that he can't seem to explain, and she hates that John always shuts the door first like he thinks she doesn't _know_. And right now, she hates her husband enough to do something about it.

As quickly as she can without waking John, she climbs from the bed and heads towards her dresser. She starts throwing necessary items into a small overnight bag. She'll get things packed for her and Greg, fetch him from the yard and they can be on a train before dawn. She'll go to her mother's or her sister's, and they'll stay there for a while, and maybe they'll come back here and maybe they won't; it doesn't matter, as long as she can get Greg away from him, even for a little while-

As quickly as the fever grew in her, it burns out. Her legs weaken and she falls into the chair in front of her mirror. She's not going anywhere tonight. She's not going anywhere _ever_. They're family. John loves his son; Greg loves his father; Blythe loves them both. She knows John means well. He's not _trying_ to be cruel. They're _family_.

As the line between what she believes and what she _wants_ to believe blurs, she wonders why she ever doubted that in the first place.

* * *

Looking back, she should have seen it coming. John never could look at his son without the same intense frown he'd had since day one. Lately, Greg couldn't look at his father without the same expression. To Blythe, this was wonderful. Any similarity she saw between them only confirmed what she wished she could say she'd always known: that her husband is a father in more than just name. Maybe if she could have looked past that, she would have seen what was building between them.

They're arguing. It's not uncommon. In fact, it's a regular occurrence in their house. There's always _something_ : Greg's grades, his homework, his hobbies, his sports, his friends, his hair, his clothes, his bedroom, his chores… The argument tonight could have been about any number of those, or almost anything else, for that matter. Blythe can't say exactly what; she's been doing her best to ignore the whole thing as she serves the potatoes for dinner.

"No son of mine-" she hears John say.

"Exactly," Greg cuts in unexpectedly, his voice sounding surprisingly dangerous for a twelve year old. "No. Son. Of. _Yours_." He speaks each word slowly and clearly, and a deathly silence falls over the room, broken only by the clatter as the serving spoon slips from her hand and hits the floor. She chances a quick glance at her husband. She can see a sort of resolution in his eyes and she has to suppress a shudder. She's looking at a man who's just had his worst fears confirmed. Almost.

"What the _Hell_ do you think you're saying?" John hisses, and Blythe half wishes that the earlier shouting would continue. That she can handle.

"John, dear, I'm sure he didn't-"

"I meant," Greg interrupts for the second time, both that night and, she thinks, _ever_ , "that no son of yours will ever do anything." He bravely meets John's eyes. "I'm _not_ your son." John is on his feet in an instant. Without saying a word, he marches straight towards Greg and smacks him about the head. Greg doesn't flinch. Blythe does. It's the first time he's raised his hand to their child (for she must think of Greg as such, especially now) in front of her, and she doesn't quite know what to think.

"Go. To your. Room." The words are almost a whisper and for several seconds Greg doesn't move. "Get the HELL out of here!" The shout does it, and Greg immediately jumps from his chair and scampers out of the dining room and up the stairs, his dinner completely forgotten.

Blythe goes straight to her husband, but hesitantly, unsure how he will react to her. He doesn't say a word when she wraps her arms around him from the side, but he doesn't push her away. She takes that as a good sign.

"He doesn't mean it." He still remains silent, staring fixedly at the chair their son just vacated. "John? He's young; he doesn't know what he's saying." He turns his head towards her, although his body remains tensed.

"I know," he assures her with a tight smile on his face that doesn't even come close to meeting his eyes.

She waits, fully expecting him to finally ask The Question.

When he doesn't, she doesn't know what to think. Either he thinks he already knows the answer, or he suspects the worst and doesn't want it confirmed. If he doesn't ask now, she realises, he never will, and she'll never know which it was. She feels relieved. She can believe the lie easily herself, but she can't tell it to others.

* * *

The summer ended a month ago, and with it Greg's imprisonment in his bedroom and John's imposed silent treatment.

Now Blythe almost wishes they could go back to that.

There were arguments between the two on an almost daily basis. John would yell, and sometimes, Greg would yell back. Tonight Greg had yelled back.

John had stood in silence for a few seconds, as he always did, too shocked or too angry to say anything. He'd turned to Blythe.

" _It_ _must be almost time for dinner, dear. Why don't you go and lay the table?_ " He'd looked sharply back at Greg for a moment. " _For two._ " And she'd given Greg an apologetic look and left the room, shutting the door behind her even though John hadn't asked her too. Sometimes it's easier to live a lie.

She goes later to Greg's bedroom. She knocks lightly on the door, but walks in before he responds. He's slumped on his bed, back against the wall, staring fixatedly at some unseen point on the closet door opposite. Blythe perches on the mattress next to him.

"Are you alright?" The question is horribly inadequate, but she's not sure what else to say. She never is. Greg shrugs, but his words belie his casual demeanour.

"I _hate_ him," he states quietly, but with venom.

"You mustn't say things like that," she admonishes gently. He shrugs again.

"It's the truth. _He_ always tells the truth." She bites her lip, because she can't disagree with that.

"He loves you," she reminds him instead.

"No he doesn't. If he did, then he wouldn't-" He stops himself halfway through the sentence, eyes wide as if he's revealed more than he intended. It's no surprise to her, though. She's wondered that same thing herself, more than once. His next words do shock her, though. "He's not my dad. Is he?" She meets his eyes. They're questioning. He actually wants an answer.

She moves her gaze slowly around the room, as if it will somehow help her direct the conversation.

Unfortunately, it does.

A plain, spiral-bound note book sits open on his desk. She's close enough to it to see the pages clearly. And the notes written on them. She doesn't read any further than the first line. She doesn't need to.

 _Distinctive red birthmark_

He _knows_. And he knew at the beginning of the summer too. It wasn't anger, or some sort of pre-teen angst. It wasn't wishful thinking or denial on his part. He knows _everything_. But he still wants…no, still _needs_ to hear it from her.

He stares up at her, eyes pleading with her: _confirm it, and I'll know why he doesn't love me. Deny it and maybe I can believe that he does._

But she can't give him this – anything else in the world, but not this. She can't bring herself to lie to him – he'd see through it, anyway – but the lie is the only thing she _can_ tell him.

"He loves you," she repeats. "Very much. And you love him very much. And I love you both very, _very_ much, because we're _family_ Greg." She repeats the words to him that have always let her accept their life the way it is. "We're a family, and we love each other." She hopes it'll work for him, too.


End file.
